


Eiderdown

by titC



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Chloe is the best, Daddy Issues, F/M, Lucifer agrees, Lucifer is a good bf, bit of domestic Deckerstar, can of feels opened and upended, check out the meanings of Chloe and Jane, feathery fluff, he's also a mess, scarred not scared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 17:14:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10223198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Having Satan as your boyfriend can mean quiet moments of domestic bliss, getting tips from heaven (and the devil's therapist) and also some faith healing.





	

Falling asleep with the devil curled around her back shouldn’t be the best part of the day, but it was. Although the competition was real: sex with the devil was definitely high on the list too; and watching him at the stove making breakfast for her, Trixie, and Maze too when she was there; and of course whenever her little monkey threw her arms around him and he froze. He still hadn’t gotten used to it. Still, this – his soft, warm skin against hers, his nose buried in her hair – this was best. Maybe it shouldn’t be, maybe she was a bad mother for enjoying this so much. Maybe she should rate Trixie’s hugs higher? Maybe…

“You’re thinking too hard,” he said, low and muffled.

“Mnot.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” His arm slid up her body and his fingers slipped between hers under her pillow. “Really.”

“I don’t believe you.” He moved, skin sliding on skin, started kissing her neck. Little kisses, his lips resting delicately on one spot, then relocating just a little bit further. “I like it when your offspring is with her father.”

“You love watching her demolish your omelets.”

“I love being naked with you all night long better. I love sleeping with nothing between us better. I love waking up – ”

“Yeah, I get it.” She knew he did, even if he’d never protested the ‘clothes on whenever Trixie might barge in’ rule. “Me too.” He’d drifted down to her shoulder. When she couldn’t feel him anymore, she knew he was right over where the bullet had gone through her. She’d lost all sensation there.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

“You’re talking to, you know, a scar. Not my best feature.”

“Yes it is. You almost died because I was stupid and I didn’t _think_ and yet you still…” His arm tightened around her.

“Hey.” His mouth went back up and he finally rearranged them so his chin was just above her head. “We live, we get hurt along the way. Makes everything else sweeter, don’t you think?” He didn’t answer. “You never told me where you got that little one under your chin.” She hoped nothing too bad was attached to it.

He said nothing for a while, but she didn’t feel any tension coming from him, at least. Finally he mumbled, “I fell from a tree.”

“…What?”

“When I couldn’t really fly yet. Climbed up the tallest tree I could find and jumped.”

She smiled in the dark."That’s not falling, exactly.”

“I was very young.”

“And already reckless.” He hummed. “I didn’t think you could be hurt by such a little thing as that, though.”

“As I said, very young. Also, not an earth tree.”

“Uh huh.”

“And I think father thought leaving it would be a warning to… to the others. He had other things to do than look after us, I guess.”

“He could have removed the scar?"

“Oh, yes."

“And your mom?”

“She was already more interested in her feud with dad than in us, I think.”

Damn, she hadn’t wanted to dredge up bad memories. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I got worse since then.”

Yes you did. “I wasn’t talking about the scar, though.” He sighed in her hair. “You know I don’t mind either face, right?”

“Humans fear the other one. The real one.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re… you’re you.”

“I am.” I love you, she didn’t say. Not yet. “What I mean is… you don’t mind that I’m not flawless. I don’t mind if you aren't either. That’s how this works.”

“You are.” He sounded almost offended on her behalf. “Flawless. Perfect.”

“Lucifer, I have that bullet scar, the one from when they removed my appendix, one I got when I fell from my bike when I was about twelve, I think; and I have stretch marks from when I carried Trixie. I’m starting to have wrinkles, white hair…”

“You’re perfect.”

“You’re biased.” He made a little sound, kissed her hair. “It’s all right. I like you biased.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“That’s good then.” It was.

 

The next day was Saturday. After an evening in Lux where Chloe particularly enjoyed watching him be oblivious to everyone but her, watching his eyes track her when he played the piano, watching his smile get even wider when she sat next to him on the bench, they went up to the penthouse together; and just before they went up in the lift she saw envy on some faces, too. But he was hers now, and no one else’s.

They had a long soak in the bathtub, until her fingers looked like prunes and his hair was all wild curls. He’d let a hand slip between her legs, held her close to him as he’d delicately parted her folds, as he’d kissed along the tendons in her neck and whispered in her ear how beautiful she was, how good and selfless; how she deserved everything. How he’d give her everything, and more.

When her breathing slowed down, she realized she could hear his own, faster and harsher than before; and she felt him hard and hot against her lower back. Well, no wonder; she certainly had squirmed quite a lot against him. She placed his hands on her hips, twisted her head to kiss what she could reach – his jaw, his chin; and then he turned his face to her and she kissed his mouth. “Well, go on then,” she said.

He did, and when they finally got out of the tub there was water everywhere on the bathroom tiles. They shared a little conspiratorial smile, and who’d have thought the devil also did (mostly) quiet, easy, and tender sex too? _Not me,_ she thought. _Not me. And I’m happy I was wrong_.

 

“Sometimes I think you wish I actually had horns.”

Her hand was buried in his hair and toying with it; sometimes scratching his scalp, sometimes tugging gently on the curls. “Hmm,” she only answered. She went on with the scratching and the tugging and the reading of her book while he half-dozed, his head on her lap.

He lifted the bottom of her shirt so he could kiss her stomach right next to her belly button. She went on reading. It was a good book, and she wouldn’t let him distract her. “Detective.” He reached up and tried (and failed) to take the book away from her.

“Get your own.” She waved a hand towards his shelves.

“I’ve read them all.”

“Too bad.” He sighed, long and dramatic, and when she peeked under her page she saw him pouting a little. “Can’t you, I don’t know, go and play a little music?”

“Not moving from here,” he mumbled. He curled a few fingers in the fabric of her shirt – in case his intentions weren’t clear enough, she assumed. His breathing evened out and slowed down after a while, and she put her book aside to watch him sleep. There was a very faint smile on his lips, and his head was turned just a little in her direction. From light-bringer to sunflower, she thought. _He’s always looking at me, even when dreaming. And I like him looking at me._

 

It had been a quiet Sunday; lazing about and going for a drive and then a walk along the ocean, and coming back to the penthouse to cook a simple dinner together. He’d decided months ago he should show her how to properly cut and dice and prepare food, but sometimes she thought it was just another reason to mold his body against her back while he took her hands in his to demonstrate the proper handling of very sharp knives. Maze’s were probably even sharper though.

His fingers were wrapped around hers on the handle, and Chloe decided then she would try and get him to talk to her that very night, when he was all mellow and happy and they’d spent two entire days together.

She leaned back into his chest and let him work his kitchen magic while describing what he was doing for her benefit. Of course, she would never tell him she only listened to his voice and not his words, because the proper way to peel carrots really didn’t matter – just him, them, here in this moment. Together, with or without a carrot.

She took the knife from his hand, turned around and looked at him. He hadn’t shaved since Friday, his hair was wild and soft and fluffy (not that she’d say it to his face), his chest hair was growing back and peeking through his open shirt. Her very own Lucifer; so far from the very polished, smug, annoying man she’d first met, she’d first believed him to be. He still was, of course; just… he was so much more than that. He made her heart beat just that little bit faster. He made her smile. He made her… alive, really. Just that: alive.

He smiled down at her and bent until he could kiss her forehead, her nose; and then she tilted her face up so their lips could meet. “Admit it, you don’t want to learn; you just want to watch me cook for you and enjoy the food.” She could feel his lips curve up against hers.

“I do.” He moved to her cheek, her temple. His stubble was long enough after a few days that it was softer than usual, sliding on her skin. She liked it. “I’ll open the wine, all right?”

He hummed in agreement, and pushed her away from the table. “Go on, then. Abandon me.”

As if.

 

She did enjoy the food, but then again she always did. The night air was cooler on the balcony than down on the ground between cars and buildings, but still warm enough that they could wear light clothes. After the last bite, she wandered to his glass railing and looked down at the little lights, orange and white, neon green and blinking blue, bright yellow and dull red, at her feet – no, below her feet. Far below her feet.

“You’ve never seemed afraid of heights,” he said.

“Well, no. Not really. I mean, not when I know I can’t fall.” Well. He’d known he couldn’t fall, too; a long time ago. And yet, fall he did. She wished she could remake history, sometimes. There was the tinkle of glass on the floor; he’d put his wine down next to his chair.

“What do you fear then, my dear Detective?”

 _Not you_ , she didn’t say. She hoped he knew that. “Hm. I fear bad things happening to Trixie. I fear not finding a murderer in time, before they kill again. I fear… I fear letting my daughter down. Back when I got poisoned I kept thinking, what will happen to her? How can I do that to her?”

She felt him walk behind her, move her hair away to kiss her nape, then settle next to her against the railing, their arms brushing. “Always so selfless.” And he said it without a trace of irony, too. “You’re a good mother, you know. And a good detective.”

She bumped his shoulder slightly. “You’re sweet.” His disgruntled snort made her smile. “And you. What do you fear?”

He didn’t answer for a long time, and she thought she’d never get an answer; that he’d draw away from her, make a quip perhaps. Then, after a long silence, he whispered, “you.” She thought all the oxygen in the world had disappeared, she thought she was choking. She’d suspected, of course; but hearing it was, well. Different. “You… you woke up things in me I didn’t even know existed.” His eyes were unfocused, fixed too far away inward to see the city down below or the night sky up above. “You’re always somewhere in my thoughts, I see you everywhere, I hear you everywhere, it smells like you everywhere; I’m always afraid you’re not here, you’re not real, I’m afraid I imagined you, I… I’m afraid you’ll die, I’m afraid of what I could do for you; Chloe, I…” His voice broke when he twisted his entire body to face her and he stayed there, standing, body taut and quivering, fists opening and closing by his sides.

“I will die, Lucifer.” His eyes were impossibly huge and dark in that moment. “Maybe I’ll get shot tomorrow, maybe I’ll get run over by car next year, maybe I’ll die at a ripe old age; but I’ll die.”

 _Why are you doing this,_ his face was saying. _Why are you doing this to me._ She could read it in the lines of his face, the tight skin around his eyes, the rigid set of his shoulders. _Because I love you. I’m hurting you, because I love you._

She caught his face between her palms. “But I’m not dying tonight, I promise.” Until that day, whenever it happened, she had to make him see he wasn’t alone. She had to make him see he was loved, that she wouldn’t be abandoning him to loneliness. He was still so bad at this, and she knew how frustrating it was. _How can he be so blind to us_ , Amenadiel had said once. _How can he think so little of us_ , Maze had grumbled. _Why does he_ _still_ _look so surprised when I give him a hug_ , Trixie had wondered. She hoped when the time came, he’d finally know.

For now though, she’d drag him back inside, push him down on his leather couch and climb on his thighs. She’d chip at all of it, all the things that hurt him; and she’d win in the end. She would. Miracle or not, she didn’t care. It was her will, her mission: to leave the world a happier devil than the one she’d met.

No one was more stubborn than Chloe Decker on a mission.

 

He was always warm, although never too warm; she assumed he had some degree of control over it but mostly, she just enjoyed it. Sometimes, of course, she felt pretty warm herself. She must be very red right now. She grinned.

“You know, this reminds me of a dream I had once."

“Oooh. A naughty dream?”

She muffled a laugh in his neck. "Yup.”

“And do you often have those?”

“No, not really.” His head tilted back a little, clearly a bit disappointed. "Well, I don’t need to. I have the real thing now.” He looked slightly mollified. Slightly.

“When did you have this dream?”

Her fingers slipped under fabric and ran over his shoulders, wide and strong and soft, too. “Hm. The night after I kissed you on the beach.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment before he asked, " _that_ kiss?”

“Yes.”

A wide smile appeared on his face. “Tell me about it.”

“Hm, well; we were in your elevator, we kissed; you undid my hair and, um. You sat me on the piano, I got your shirt off.” She started on his buttons, a bit impatiently, pushed his shirt down. “And then you carried me to the couch and…” He was paying a lot of attention to that spot right under her jaw, and it was very distracting.

“And?”

“You’re going to laugh.”

“Tell me.”

“You asked if I was sure.”

“Not laughing yet. Come on, what are you not saying?”

“You had horns.”

“Horns?”

“They were dark red and you called them your love handles and I, er. Grabbed them?”

He caught her forearms and pushed her a little away from him to stare at her better. “Detective, I’m proud of you.”

“It was a really, really good dream.”

“Should I be jealous of the me of your erotic fantasies?”

“Hm, no. Maze woke me before we could get much further. Still…”

“I knew it, there’s something you want you haven’t told me about, is there?”

“Well, I could touch him.” She could feel his incomprehension. “I could touch him, touch you, everywhere; and you liked it. Everywhere.”

He understood, now. His chest had stopped moving under her hand, and he led himself rigidly against the back of the couch. “And that is what you want, then.” It wasn’t even a question.

“No. Yes. I just… I’ve noticed you avoid it. You never say anything, but you turn away, you roll on your back, you just… you don’t want me to. I can’t help thinking, why? Do they hurt? Are you ashamed, are you uncomfortable? What can I do?”

“You think they’re ugly. A disfigurement.”

“What? No!”

“I remember the first time you saw them. You were shocked.”

“Well, yes. I don’t like thinking of you in pain.”

“You hardly knew me back then. What did you care?”

“Well I – yes, of course I was shocked!” She rested her forehead on his, trapping him with a hand on his nape. “You were standing there naked, showing off to me, and you looked so perfect; and then… I thought, who could do that to you? To anyone? How painful it must have been, how it looked like torture. And then you just… suddenly you were someone else.”

“You pitied me.”

“It’s called compassion, Lucifer.”

“No one had ever mentioned it before. Why did you… Why?”

“You don’t make it easy for people to try and get intimate with you, you know.”

“”I’ve been _intimate_ , as you put it, with…”

“Don’t misunderstand me on purpose. You know what I mean.” He fiddled with the bottom of the shirt she’d stolen from his wardrobe, avoiding her gaze. “I told Dan not to say anything when you went together to get intel on Boris.” She caught his hands and stilled them. “I asked Linda, too.”

“She can’t tell you anything.”

“I asked your ex, not your therapist.”

“I’m sure this is not ethical,” he mumbled.

Chloe ignored him. “She said everything was fine until she asked you about it in one of your sessions, and after that you changed your behavior.” Her thumbs were drawing slow figures of eight on the sensitive spot just between his own thumb and forefinger. The infinity symbol, again and again, until it was sealed into the memory of his flesh. “Lucifer, it’s only concern. Kindness.”

“But… but why? They’re just scars. Flaws. And I wanted it. I wanted them off. I did.”

She wouldn’t tell him Maze had told her about cutting his wings off. About the pain, the blood. “I know you did. It was still traumatizing.”

“I couldn't keep them. I had to. You understand, don’t you? I had to!”

As Linda had predicted, he was growing agitated. If she chose to do this, she would have to be ready for anything, she’d said. Well, she’d also said she should leave this to professionals; but Linda still had a hard time dealing with his other face, if only because she felt guilty for her first reaction to it.

“I know. It doesn’t make it any less painful, though.”

“I chose it.” His eyes were feverish, boring into hers; but still dark brown.

“You did.”

“I didn’t choose… the rest. This, yes. It was my choice!”

Here it came. “The rest?”

He tried to push her away from him, but she held on. As long as she resisted, even just a little, he’d stop. He’d never hurt her. “Please…” She shook her head. “Please, I don’t want… I’m going to…” He was shuddering now.

“I’m not leaving. I’ve seen you before.”

He tried a last time to tug her arms away from around him, but she wasn’t letting go; and then he shifted. Red eyes, red skin; he was panting and she cradled his head against her chest. His breath was fast and hot on her skin. Too fast, too hot. He wasn’t controlling much right now. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he gritted out.

“You won’t. Why would you?” His panting was more and more irregular, catching in his throat every few seconds. “I trust you.” She thought she could hear him whisper, _monster_. _Monster_. He was heating up and shivering; and she knew he was hiding his face from her. She knew he was still afraid she’d run away screaming after all, afraid she’d be driven mad like so many others before. She knew he wanted to believe her, too – that she wouldn’t. That she’d stay, not because she was sworn to him or because she expected something in return, but because she wanted to. Because she chose to. Chose him. She wished he dared to believe, but could an angel – a fallen angel at that – have faith?

He had the scars in that form too, but like the rest of him they looked angrier, fresher; burned, too. A sticky-looking liquid was welling up from them here and there, as if it had never properly healed. But then – then…

She’d been right. That dream hadn’t been a dream, the priest had really come to her in her sleep. He’d really told her to hope, to trust. Faith will heal, he’d said. She hadn’t understood. Whose faith? Faith in what? God is his father, she slept with her legs tangled in the devil’s.Those were not a matter of faith. Father Frank had smiled. “Chloe Jane Decker, you are hope, you are spring, you are new growth; you carry his father’s mercy. We’ll meet again, and I promise this time I’ll prove him I’m a much better pianist.” His laugh had still been ringing in her mind when she woke up.

Finally, it had started. His trembling subsided, he felt less feverish. The huge scars on his back became smoother, drier – they were healing, she realized. A peach-like fuzz was tickling her chin and she raised a hand to cradle his skull. “Chloe?” He sounded so surprised, his voice high and thready.

“I’m here,” she said. His fingers were gripping her – well, his – shirt, as if nothing else made sense, as if the whole world was reeling and swaying around him and she was the one thing he could trust, the one thing he could hold onto.

“Why doesn’t it hurt anymore?” She kissed the new, baby-soft hair on his head, already curling and going every which way. He stirred slightly, stared at his hand where the skin was looking better by the second, then at her. Wide brown eyes, glistening; his pink lips, slightly parted. “Who am I, now?”

He made a fist, then uncurled it; he frowned and suddenly he was all red and scarred again, he sighed and he was unblemished again. Soft white down was stuck all over the back of the couch, and she refrained a smile. “So, who are you?”

“I… I don’t know?” He kept his eyes on his hands, turning them this way and that. “It’s like… it’s like I can choose to look like the devil; but it’s not real anymore?”

“You’re just you, then.”

“Me?” She nodded. “But, but I _am_ the devil; I can’t be anything else, I don’t know… I don’t understand, I don’t…”

“You’re just free, Lucifer. Free to be whoever you want to be.”

His eyes were luminous. “Free?”

 _I just wanted to by my own man_ , he’d told her once. Well, now he was. His own man – and also hers, too.

He closed his eyes when she kissed him.


End file.
